I grew up in a world where the forest shimmered in endless variations of green and yellow and hues I still can’t name, the soil seemed to turn from black to brown to something like blue as it dribbled from my hand and where the sky bled purple at dusk. In Poland, though, behind the Iron Curtain, art meant black and white reproductions, washed out grays and “social realism,” art that didn’t seem to be much of either. Drenched in it in life, deprived of it in art, I have become consumed by color in my work. I want the colors I use to breathe and pulse, to transform spaces between them, to illuminate light and darkness behind them.